Nestled in the shade, the red house stood. Small but
vibrant, unadorned. A studio and storage hut the lone companions to the relic
of a life that had been lived there. The laughter of six children must have
echoed off the walls, and through the trees, and floated upon the breeze and
the tide within the waters of the darkly wild lagoon. So fitting a home for an
artist such as Joi.
Cautiously, I approached, feeling her spirit somewhere,
everywhere nearby, for it had to be. A being so astoundingly eccentric would
most certainly venture freely when set free of earthly bonds, and yet somehow
not stray too far from the home she had so loved.
Entering the small building that I knew had been her studio,
I called out, my voice returning to me hollowed by the close walls and the
heat. There was no answer, yet I spoke to her, calling her by name and asking
her permission to visit, explaining that I had so much to tell her, wanting to
share my thoughts and even more to be aware of hers. I told her that I knew
she’d raised her children there, that I respected her for her decisions and the
way she’d lived her life. I said I was a writer, not a famous one, but one who
loved to listen and share stories, and I so wanted to share hers.
I looked around the room and saw my own reflection in a
mirror by the door. Oddly, I wasn’t very startled, perhaps though expecting to
see Joi, not myself. I only know I wanted to, so very, very much. There was so
much she could tell me, I was sure. So many things that she might know. Or then
again, she may not have the answers that I sought. I somehow felt the answers
may yet dwell inside her house, and so I journeyed on.
Peering in the front windows, beside the locked door, I saw
with my eyes a house in disrepair, but in my heart I pictured it as it may have
been, so filled with light and laughter and eclectic things. Across the yard
again, around the side, stepping carefully towards the back and the dock and
the lagoon that lay beyond the overgrown yard. Rotting boards cushioned my
footfalls while they creaked and sang out with a music all their own. My
pounding heart accompanied their song as I realized the sliding glass door was
unlocked and I felt the little red house welcome me inside with open arms.
Tattered curtains waited, calmly patient, ever still. Not
one ripple of movement, no sound, as the sun poured down upon the aging floor
from a skylight in the middle of the room. I spoke to her again, hoping still
to hear her voice, to sense her presence, to somehow know that she was there.
Nothing. And so I asked her, if she’d be so kind, to please let me know if
there was something, some remnant of herself left in this place that I could
take, because I wanted so to know that I had been there, to remember the
feeling of everything and nothing all at once. So encapsulating. So freeing. So
alive but wanting more.
I wandered through the broken rooms, spotting objects here
and there still strewn about the vacant, lonely place. These were the things
that had remained after the estate sale, after the pondering and the pillaging
and the raping of this life no longer real. She’d had a collection of
cassettes, her musical tastes as varied as I’m sure were the stories of her
days. I almost hoped one would jump out of the wooden case upon the wall; would
leap into my waiting hands. Then I would know. I would know that she was there.
Still nothing stirred. No movement. No sound. Just my wild
imagination prodding me onward, into other rooms, round in circles, all the
while speaking, emoting, sharing all my thoughts with her, my secrets. I
somehow felt I needed her to know, or maybe just because I knew she’d never
tell.
I asked again if she could give me anything, let me know
somehow if there was something I could take. Finally, thinking that perhaps
she’d gone away, I turned to go. Happy for the time I’d spent there, but
lacking one more thing I couldn’t place.
My gaze fell upon the mantle; an old fireplace I’d glanced
at as I’d made my way inside. And there it was. A single die, red in color,
like the house, lying there, so unassuming. Suddenly I knew, with everything
inside me, that she wanted me to take it. I wondered who was crying, then I
realized it was me. All the things I wanted her to tell me, everything I needed
her to say; all of it was wrapped up neatly in one single, faded die. I picked
it up and held it in my hand, thinking of how well she must have known me
already. I would be the one to find this, and she’d known I’d understand.
“It’s all about the chances that we take,” I heard her say,
though not in spoken words; they were unnecessary now. “Go and live your life
and take your chances. That’s what I did, girl. Give it time, take your time.
It doesn’t matter when you get there, only that you do.”
And so I thanked her, wiped my eyes and left that lovely
place, so grateful for the chance that had been given me to learn about the
woman who had lived and died there. Inspiration. Words to live by.
And still, as I left, the silence.
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